


Drive

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Marco drive/leave/arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wingsofbadass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/gifts).



> Wow, this took a long ass time to finish... thank you to Riema (tumblr user wingsofbadass) who is the baddest bitch in the universe and who continued to encourage me about this fic. ;_; You are the best, my TP. <3 Thank you.
> 
> Based on this Halsey song: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oI-BsWbIg4>

It’s five a.m., and Marco is staring at his emptied apartment, sitting against the wall. He’s been waiting for half an hour—Jean is late, as usual—and he’s taken in every shape he’d so adoringly and haphazardly fit furniture into when it was his home.

He looks in his backpack for the third time, always prepared since his Boy Scout days, feeling for the bottles of water, granola bars, and bags of chips for what’s supposed to be a twelve hour drive. It’s all he needs (and has) for now since his furniture and larger possessions had been hauled away by the professional movers a few days before.

He perks up as he hears the faint roar of an engine outside, the opening and slam of a car door echoing through the parking lot, and then the jingle of keys.

He already knows the familiar sight he’ll see from the second floor balcony as he leaves the apartment for the last time: Jean, leaning against a car door, chewing on a cigarette he probably won’t give up until he realizes how fast they age people. 

So, since Jean was late, Marco decides to linger for a little bit. 

He studies the sliding glass door at the other end of the apartment. The view it boasts is unremarkable, but it had been _Marco’s_ view—something he’d grown accustomed to.

He smiles a little with the side of his mouth, giving a friendly little wave to the sliding glass door and a shrug, and points toward the front door.

“See ya,” he says to the apartment, refusing to let any sadness creep into his voice as he pulls the front door open. The key’s been turned into the rental office, the walls have been painted white again, and he’s ready to leave. 

When the lock clicks, and the only reason Marco doesn’t want to cry is because he finally sees Jean standing there with a hesitant smile on his face. 

“Hey,” he says simply, his eyes expectant he looks from Marco to the door and back again. “You ready?”

“Yup,” Marco says with a firm nod as he makes his way to the passenger side door. “Let’s go.”

Jean stares for a minute, looking as though he wants to say something, but then doesn’t. Marco’s slightly relieved because he doesn’t feel like talking right now. It’s too early for serious talks and too late for indecision.

The crunch of gravel under tires as they pull out of the parking lot is so final, it makes Marco close his eyes and focus on the sound of Jean’s breathing, the familiar smell of the car, all the reasons that staying on this side of the locked door is better than letting the car hold only one person.

The lights of the city are just at the time between night and dawn, when only a few brave and/or drunk night birds are still out—Jean and he _were_ those people once, several lifetimes ago—as they drive down a familiar stretch of road that stretches for at least ten miles before the highway.

“This place is so _pink_ ,” Jean murmurs disparagingly, lighting up another cigarette as the last remnants of the city pass by. “Good riddance.”

Marco casts his gaze out toward the neon signs passing more quickly than he can keep track of, and notes that Jean’s right: there is a lot of pink.

He likes pink; it just so happens that he likes Jean more.

The silence must be heavier than he first thinks, because when he looks up, he can feel himself caught in Jean’s peripheral vision.

“You want a granola bar?” he asks, turning his face to meet Jean’s eyes as they halt at a stoplight. 

It’s been raining, and the pavement is black and wet; the pink neon floods the roadway and Marco feels like he’s drowning, because Jean looks irritated.

But he doesn’t say as much, and just shakes his head. “No, thanks,” he replies, the casualness forced. “Maybe later.” 

Marco decides to utilize his more intimate knowledge of his best friend’s needs this early in the morning, and says with a tone he hopes is a little more cheerful, “How about some coffee?”

That grabs Jean’s attention, and his eyes practically light up at the suggestion. It’s the happiest Marco’s seen him since they first met up earlier in the morning.

“Before we get on the road, please?”

Marco laughs, turning to roll down the window and peer out at the offerings of fast food restaurants or diners that might actually be open at such an early hour.

The sunrise is just starting to creep up at the edges of the sky, pulling the deep blue into an orange glow; the pink neon is slowly being drowned out.

“Oh my gosh,” Marco exclaims suddenly, pointing at a diner, “that’s...”

Jean cranes his head to the side haphazardly, keeping one eye on the road while trying to look at where Marco’s pointing.

“Is that...” Jean asks in wonder, trailing off as he slows the car down and throws on the right blinker to make an illegal u-turn.

“Where we first ate!” Marco exclaims.

“The very first time,” Jean echoes, sounding stunned. “Right.”

“I bet they have coffee,” Marco says with a little smile, looking over at Jean almost shyly, feeling silly for wanting to indulge the past. “Before we go, for old time’s sake, right?”

Jean raises an eyebrow, debating. When their eyes meet, though, he sees Marco’s expression, and the nods. “Okay.”

There are two cars in the parking lot. One is a Lincoln Town Car that’s probably been driven 100 miles in ten years by the old couple sitting in the window who’ve no doubt come to take advantage of the early bird special, and then Jean’s beat up Camaro filled to the brim with possessions.

“Two?” the waitress in a yellow gingham dress asks, snapping her gum as she looks back and forth between them. 

Jean opens his mouth, and she cuts him off. “Coffee...” Jean’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyes widen. She grins and him and winks. “... to go. Two. One black, one with extra cream and sugar?”

“Um, yeah,” Jean replies in surprise, looking taken aback as the waitress turns on her heel and disappears behind the counter. He’s not used to people predicting his moves so easily, but the fact is: Jean is far more predictable than he realizes.

“She’s got our number,” Marco jokes, tapping Jean on the arm. “Although let’s hope there’s no sugar in your coffee.”

“You don’t know where I put sugar in my coffee,” Jean replies grumpily. 

Marco rolls his eyes and sighs loudly, just to make a point, before shooting Jean a skeptical sidelong look. “Do I really need to rehash your history with coffee? How it made you puke in seventh grade when you thought it was cool, and then in ninth grade when you decided to drink it with five sugars?” 

Now Jean is laughing, even if somewhat in embarrassment, and he snorts at Marco.

“And then,” Marco continues, thoroughly enjoying himself now as he leans against the counter, idly eyeing one of the fresh pies under a glass cover, “you started drinking it black when you got that second shift job.”

“Yup,” Jean agrees, raising his hands up in the air in defeat. “Fair’s fair.”

“See?” Marco replies teasingly. “I could make a chart of your coffee and sugar progression.”

Jean groans, rolling his eyes. “It’s too early for your bullshit, Bodt. Stop harassing me.”

Marco just grins, getting close and patting Jean in a friendly gesture on his upper arm. “You’d be bored if I weren’t around.”

Suddenly, a somber note enters the air, and Marco regrets saying the words.

But Jean doesn’t look perturbed; instead, his gaze turns soft, and he nods simply. “Yeah,” he replies quietly, and then gets close.

Marco doesn’t flinch away as Jean reaches up to rest a hand against the back of his neck. It doesn’t mean anything—they’re not “together,” but then again, they’re also not apart—but it makes Marco’s heart beat faster.

He has no idea what Jean means with little touches like these, but one thing Marco has become sure of over the past six months as the germination of this little road trip truly began to form is that it’s not like the way anyone else touches him.

And his response, a response that he’d tested over a period of months and slowly developed, is to simply get close and lean against Jean.

It’s become natural. As Marco has edged ever closer to Jean every time those deft, surprisingly gentle fingers ended up resting against the back of his neck, when they do collide, Jean just accepts it.

Now, leaning against Jean as his fingers rub absently at the nape of Marco’s neck is simply to be expected.

“You tired?” Jean asks softly, startling Marco out of his reverie.

Marco yawns in response, and then laughs a little as Jean snorts.

“Yeah,” he replies, but shakes his head. “But I’m fine. You want to go cue up some music, and I’ll pay for the coffee?”

“Sure,” Jean replies, drawing away. Marco normally would feel a twinge of regret at the loss of contact, but now, he knows he doesn’t have to worry about that so much anymore. “Besides, I don’t want to listen to any of your weird folk music.”

“Hey!” Marco exclaims in mock outrage. “I veto metal.”

“Good for you,” Jean retorts, falling into their verbal banter comfortably. “I have at least five playlists ready with only metal.”

Marco scowls at him, but then raises his eyebrows. “How about a truce?” he asks earnestly. “I play that mix that I made you for your birthday? It has _some_ metal...”

Jean evaluates that offer for a minute, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his hips in that argumentative way that Marco secretly loves to death.

“Fine,” he grunts after a few a moments of silence, and Marco grins.

“It’s on my phone. You know the pin, right?”

“Yeah,” Jean replies, giving a lazy salute as he turns to head back to the car, keys jingling in his hand as he pulls them out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“Coffee to go for you and your boyfriend, hon?” the waitress asks. “That’ll be an even five.”

“Oh,” Marco replies, blushing and flustered suddenly as he fishes around in his pockets for change. “We’re not... um...”

“Coulda’ fooled me,” she smirks, snapping her gum, and Marco isn’t sure whether he loves or hates her right then.

“Here,” he offers, adding two dollars as a tip of sorts. “Um, thanks.”

“You boys headed in or out of town?”

Marco doesn’t answer, just gives a nervous grin with the two coffees in this hand in the paper to-go cups, and shrugs.

“Going somewhere, I guess,” he finally replies cryptically. “Still figuring it out.”

“Wanderlust is a beautiful thing when you’re young.” She smiles with pink lips and nods. “How about two pieces of pie for the road, on me?”

Marco smiles sheepishly, realizing she must’ve noticed his envious glances at the desserts.

He leaves the diner with two to-go cups, two pieces of pie, and the knowledge that Jean hates cherries even though that’s all they had.

When he gets in the car and slams the door shut, Jean eyes the box tied off with string curiously.

“What’s that?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, flicking the cigarette he’s finished out the window and turning the key in the ignition. It’s noisy as the engine roars to life, and Marco gives one last look at the diner that holds so many memories for both of them.

“Pie,” he replies, smiling a little as he holds it gingerly on his lap after sliding the cups into the drink holders on either side of the gear shift. “But it’s cherry.”

Jean grimaces, cracking the window a bit more as he looks over his shoulder to reverse, and then slowly shifts into drive to pull out of the parking lot. The road is still empty even though the landscape has slowly begun to truly find its way into morning, but he looks both ways. He’s oddly cautious in that way.

“Well,” Jean replies after a minute as he pulls back onto the road, “if you paid for it, I’ll eat it.”

“It was free.”

“You’re going to eat two pieces of pie?” Jean queries, shooting Marco a look, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. He knows Marco has a sweet tooth.

“Only if you hate cherries that much, but it looks good.”

“Why free?”

Marco makes a baffled sound with the same subtle shrug he gave the waitress, declining to mention her assumption.

“She took pity on my fatigue?”

He’s confused as Jean immediately huddles forward, almost glaring at the road as they speed up a little. There’s a sign that announces the highway is only a mile away, and suddenly, Marco feels a heavy tension fall over the interior of the car.

“If you didn’t want to get up in the first place...” he starts, then abruptly clamps his mouth shut.

“Um,” Marco hazards, awkwardly trying to change the subject, “sorry about the cherry.”

Jean doesn’t answer; just grunts, mumbles something about how it’s fine.

Marco feels dejected; it’s like he can’t say anything right, and he hides behind his coffee cup with a fatigued sigh. It’d been hard enough leaving, and the truth is that he didn’t really want to. He knows Jean isn’t _trying_ to hurt him, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.

“I’ll miss these palm trees,” he remarks idly, watching a tall, perfectly manicured palm tree go by.

They slowly stop at a red light, and Jean makes a dismissive _tch_ that sounds downright bitter. Marco realizes he must sound silly and nostalgic, but he also doesn’t appreciate the dismissive response.

“Well, sorry if you hate palm trees,” he mumbles, huddling down into the sweatshirt he’s wearing.

He can feel Jean glance over at him and stare as the car idles at the light; Marco doesn’t make eye contact.

“You know I like palm trees,” comes the surprisingly soft reply. “I didn’t mean...”

Marco just sighs, shaking his head a little.

And then there’s that touch again against the back of his neck that’s sweeter than pie and more addictive than coffee—Jean’s deft fingers, stroking at the top of his spine and then along his hairline.

“Sorry,” he says simply. 

Marco wants to pull away, tell Jean what an asshole he can be, how cruel his words can be, say all the things that have been hovering in the air between them since the moment Jean had done the math for how much gas it would cost to go back to Trost.

Instead, he just heaves a long suffering sigh, and shakes his head. “Drink your coffee, Jean.”

There’s a soft chuckle, the hand drops, and suddenly everything is normal again.

By the time the last remnants of neon have been drowned out by the rising orange sun, Marco has nodded off, not wanting to ponder disappearing palm trees and pavement anymore, ready to be done with it. Jean’s leather jacket couched under his head as he leans against the car door helps, and he’s hovering in the pleasant space just before unconsciousness when he’s wrenched out of his relaxed state.

“ _Shit_ , I thought we’d beat traffic,” comes the grumbling, though Jean is obviously talking to himself. “It’s seven in the morning.”

Marco yawns a little, shifting in his seat, and then rolls his head to the side lazily to look over at Jean. He doesn’t seem to mind or have anything else to say, and Marco ends up studying him after a moment.

There’s a little stubble on his chin, and he has circles under his eyes, which makes Marco want to frown. It’s another reason they’re leaving—long hours at a thankless job that Marco had practically begged him to give up. 

The car inches from the off-ramp into the backed-up highway, and even Marco can’t fight the disgruntled noise that comes out of his mouth as he sees the endless jam of cars in front of them.

“Well, at least we don’t have anywhere to be,” Marco reasons, settling back against the jacket and closing his eyes again. “I can drive later,” he offers in a sleepy voice. At least he’ll be rested enough to concentrate on the road once Jean starts to get tired. 

“Hey,” Jean says, as if a brilliant idea has just occurred to me, “got any pie for me?”

Marco laughs a little through a yawn, sitting back up. “It’s cherry,” he warns with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t care,” Jean yawns back, holding out his hand. “Hope you have a napkin.”

Marco is relieved to find that the waitress has indeed included a few napkins inside the box, and he offers Jean a piece that’s not crumbled too much.

He smiles a little as Jean manages to take a rather enthusiastic bite, and then nods. “Tastes more like diner pie than cherries.”

“What’s diner pie?” Marco asks curiously, leaning forward to retrieve his cup and mostly cold coffee.

“It tastes like pie, but it’s from a diner. It’s not cherry or chocolate or banana. It’s diner.”

“That’s kind of gross,” Marco cringes, as he takes a sip of appropriately cold diner coffee.

The car inches forward slightly, and Jean huffs as he swallows the diner pie in a few ambitious bites. “Nah, it’s good actually,” he replies absentmindedly, before scowling as he peers through the windshield, shaking his head in frustration. “What is this shit?”

“Uh, rush hour on Friday morning?” Marco replies sheepishly.

“You’re not helping,” Jean grumbles, frowning. It doesn’t have any real vitriol, though, and Marco’s not even surprised at the fact that his best friend is grumpy as hell. It’s to be expected between the hours of six and nine a.m.

And now it’s Marco’s turn to reach out and rest his fingers against the back of Jean’s neck, stroke there soothingly. It’s taken some getting used to—the fact that he can do this without question or challenges. That Jean likes it, welcomes it.

He’s immediately rewarded with a sharp breath for his efforts, and he smiles a little as he rubs gently at Jean’s neck.

“It’ll only be a little while,” he remarks, keeping his hand where it is, “and then, we’ll be on our way.”

Jean just shrugs a little, but he sighs as he relaxes again, letting Marco’s hand sit there. 

Neither one of them move as they wait in traffic, and Jean suddenly becomes far more patient with Marco’s fingers pressed against his skin. The edge of his hairline is slightly bristly, needing to be buzzed up the back again since it’s grown out a little since the last time Marco cut it.

It had been a job interview—the last one Jean had gone on before calling it quits, and the one he hadn’t gotten. 

“So,” Marco says cheerfully, drawing away his hand and sitting up with a yawn and stretch, “I have some places we can stop.”

“Stop?” Jean asks curiously, turning his head slightly as the car inches forward a few feet. 

“Yeah!” The glove compartment pops open and Marco extracts the large road map he’d shoved in it with a sea of granola bars that morning. 

Jean looks downright shocked as it unfolds to reveal several routes traced out in yellow, replete with little red dots and purple circles that Marco marked as places of interest.

“Did you...” he says, his eyebrows raised, “plan out a sightseeing tour?”

There’s a sharp honk from behind them, and he immediately narrows his eyes, glaring into the rearview mirror.

“Fucker,” he growls, putting his blinker on to move into the next lane. “You can wait.”

“Jean,” Marco breathes, sneaking a hesitant look into his own mirror, “you’re going to get us shot.”

The blinker continues, and the traffic in their lane comes to a standstill and Jean refuses to move, until finally some kind soul decides to let him into the lane he wants.

The car behind them that had been honking zooms by—middle finger already sticking out the window—only to end up once again stuck behind a different car.

“Douche,” Jean mutters, rolling his eyes.

Marco is practically hiding now, slouched down in his seat, hoping that whoever Jean just pissed off isn’t the type of driver to carry a shotgun in the back of their car.

“Stop being such a wuss, Marco,” comes the sudden laugh. There’s a tap against Marco’s hunched in shoulders, and then Jean nudges the map. “You can’t plan an adventure and then cower when some asshole tries to walk all over you.”

Marco sneaks a hesitant look out the window to make sure the angry driver is far enough away, and then shoots Jean a dark look.

Of course, the snarky smile Jean’s sporting now—so familiar, and achingly so since Marco hasn’t seen it in months—dulls his irritation. He finally just rolls his eyes and straightens up.

“So, you want to...” he asks hesitantly, trailing off and feeling unsure, “go on an adventure?”

Unexpectedly, Jean reaches out to nudge at the map. “C’mon, tell me what you’ve got.” There’s even a smile in Jean’s voice now, and he shoots Marco a downright affectionate gaze. “Um,” he says haltingly after a moment, immediately averting his eyes back to the road and biting his lip, “I’m glad you’re not... too sad about leaving.”

Marco immediately thinks that Jean actually has no idea how sad he is to be leaving home; at the same time, Jean also has absolutely no notion of how sad Marco would be about the alternative option.

He smiles softly, trying to keep the mood light, and he nods a little. “It’ll be fun. I circled a whole bunch of places.” He opens the map fully on his lap again, squinting a little as he reviews the places he had marked. He’d started two weeks before, right around the time it was becoming clear that Jean wasn’t going to be able to stay where they’d been living without going crazy.

Marco had started to plan a road trip in order to keep himself sane, just in case.

“There’s this really big mountain—”

“Veto,” Jean immediately interjects, making an obnoxious buzzing sound. “Nature is boring.”

“—followed by,” Marco continues, ignoring the interruption, “the world’s biggest ball of twine, right down the road.”

That shuts Jean up, and he looks at Marco out of the corner of his eye. “I want to see the twine.”

“I know you want to see the twine,” Marco retorts curtly, trying not to sound smug. “But I get to see the mountain. It’s pretty! I saw pictures of it online.”

Jean grumbles a little, but he’s smiling. “Fine,” he finally agrees as traffic starts to pick up, “a mountain for a ball of twine. How far out of the way is this?”

Marco shrugs a little, tracing the lines on the map idly with his fingertip. “A few hours?”

“What else you got?”

By the time they’re traveling speedily on the highway, the desert flying by all around them and sun beating down on the car, Marco’s managed to map out the least linear route in the history of travel—a zigzag of all the places that lie between them and their final destination.

The first detour is exit 104—a curve immediately shrouded in alpines that promptly turns into a bendy road. It’s almost uncanny how quickly the drive turns from a vast highway into what seems like a rural trail.

Jean is watching the road intently, but somehow, he looks at peace now, curiously darting looks at the trees all around them, and it brings back an unexpected memory

When Marco had moved to Trost in junior high, he’d missed trees like this, and the only thing that had made him feel better was talking to his new friend (that no one else seemed to take kindly to in their school) about his hometown of Jinae.

Now, Jean peers through the windshield, his eyes wide as he watches the road and the trees.

“Oh!” Marco exclaims, pointing off to the left as Jean immediately slows down the car. “Here! I see a sign for the mountain outlook.”

Jean laughs a little under his breath, but Marco can’t even pretend to feel embarrassed about his enthusiasm because he’s never seen a mountain this purportedly huge before.

Jean pulls the car off to the side, and Marco is immediately grinning, armed with a bag of quarters for the viewfinder.

“Wow,” he says breathlessly, jumping out of the car to admire the view of a snow capped peak, “that’s amazing.”

Jean is still in the car, fumbling with a cigarette, and Marco rolls his eyes. He decides to abandon Jean and his bumbling, and immediately strides over to the viewfinder and slips a few quarters in.

His breath catches as the mountain clicks into view suddenly; it’s beautiful, and makes him feel very far away from everything, until he feels Jean’s hands on his shoulders. 

The touch is hesitant, as if unsure of how Marco will react; Jean breathes in sharply as Marco takes one hand in his own.

“C’mre,” he says softly, turning his head to smile at Jean, “it’s better than a ball of twine.”

“Fat chance,” Jean scoffs, but he’s smiling so affectionately that Marco almost blushes. “Let me see anyway, though.”

“You have to pay the price!” Marco crows, grinning as he pokes Jean in the shoulder. “Admit how awesome it is.”

Jean grimaces, rolling his eyes and making an overly dramatic sound of exasperation as he glances through the viewfinder.

There are a few beats of silence, until finally, he pulls back and faces Marco with grudging look.

“Okay, fine, so it’s pretty cool.”

They pile back into the car, suddenly imbued with vigor for Marco’s uneven path on the map, and Jean goes a little faster than the speed limit.

The ball of twine is bigger than Marco expected; so is the confidence that Jean displays as he presses his hand to the small of Marco’s back. 

Jean buys a postcard in the ramshackle gift shop; Marco pretends not to be thrilled that Jean has finally lost track of time and has stopped complaining about traffic.

The road becomes like a ribbon, snaking through the desert, and it slowly starts to turn into night. The trip itself was only supposed to take about twelve hours from the time they left to their arrival, but neither one of them seem to mind taking their time.

Finally, though, it’s time to stop, and they find a motel room via a large, old-fashioned sign on the highway advertising cheap lodging.

When they arrive and Jean is trying to discreetly count his cash and fidget for a lighter, Marco pays for the room.

“You didn’t have to pay,” Jean grumbles once he sees Marco standing there with the room key, waiting patiently. “I’ll pay you back.”

Marco puts on a bright smile, eager to drop it, knowing that no matter what he says, Jean will feel inferior and guilty. “Okay,” he says easily with a shrug. “Besides, we’re putting a lot of miles on your car, right?”

That earns at least a pensive glance from Jean who’d promptly lit up a cigarette upon finding his lost lighter and their imminent entrance to the non-smoking room, and he exhales slowly, as if pondering the legitimacy of this point.

“That’s true,” he finally concedes with a minute shrug, darting his eyes up to Marco from where he’d been pointedly staring down at the pavement of the parking lot.

It’s pleasantly warm out—the type of night that they’d first decided that they had to leave, that it was time to go. Marco still isn’t sure how he feels about how that particular conversation went; but the point is that the outcome means they’re together.

“Nice out,” he remarks idly, smiling a little as he looks up at the yellow lights of the hotel entrance. There are bugs buzzing around, and he grimaces. 

Jean laughs a little, knowing Marco’s hatred of bugs rivals his hatred of cigarettes, and his mood seems to shift a little. “C’mon,” he says, throwing the butt on the ground and squashing it under his heel, “let’s go to bed now so we can get up early.” He rounds the car to pop open the trunk and grab their overnight bags, and then he says more quietly, “And um, maybe we can hit some more of your weird sightseeing stuff.”

Marco immediately cheers up, practically beaming at Jean as the trunk shuts and his face appears over the hood of the car.

“That’d be great!” he exclaims, thrilled at the prospect of spending another day or two with Jean, independent of any comings or goings. Just them, the road, and the car. “I promise, it’ll be fun. It’s not all nature stuff.”

Jean chuckles a little as he comes to stand besides Marco, peering into the car to make sure the doors are locked.

The motel room is small and basic, but it’ll do the job for the night. Marco knows Jean is exhausted from driving for so many hours, and he can tell the toll of the emotional baggage he’s been carrying since they left that morning has been substantial.

“C’mon,” he says softly as Jean strips off his shirt, “you shower first. You’re way more tired than me.”

Jean doesn’t even hesitate as he nods with a yawn, stripping off clothing as he walks to the bathroom and throwing it behind him. Marco gets a flash of Kirschstein ass that he doesn’t really think about—he got used to Jean’s 180 from being mortified in high school to get dressed in the locker to practically being a naturist—and he immediately picks up the trail of clothes out of sheer habit, throwing them onto one of the beds next to Jean’s bag.

It’s not that Jean ever expects Marco to clean up after him. Generally speaking, when they’d shared an apartment, Jean was very tidy in terms of housekeeping, laundry, and personal hygiene. But his one indulgence was leaving clothes on the floor, including the living room, bathroom, and hallway.

He informed Marco one day while slightly high and giddy on a lazy afternoon off, before things started to go downhill, that it gave him a weird thrill since it was his mother’s most hated habit.

Marco left him alone after that, but he still picks up the clothing. At least Jean doesn’t mind; he even says thank you.

“Are you picking up my clothes?” comes a call through the bathroom door which is slightly ajar, steam starting to wisp out of it.

Marco laughs quietly, and just because he feels like it, takes Jean’s clothes and throws them back on the floor where they were. 

“No!” he calls back innocently. “Why would I do that?”

There’s no answer, and he lets the smile linger on his face, feeling suddenly very affectionate toward Jean. He’s happy to be here, much as he already misses the apartment terribly. It may have not been glamorous, but it was his; and Jean’s at one point.

“Because,” says a voice from the bathroom door as Jean appears suddenly, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist, “that’s what you do.”

Marco sticks out his bottom lip and rolls his eyes, giving Jean the brush-off. “You wish,” he retorts.

“I didn’t leave those jeans there.”

“Shut up and let me get into the shower.” Jean is grinning now as Marco stands up, taking a few steps forward to stand in front of him and tweak his bare shoulder playfully. “You’re losing it, because you totally did leave your jeans there.”

Marco’s expecting Jean to banter with him, say something silly, deny it, make a joke, or just yawn. Something ordinary and worthy of a random weekday night sharing a motel room out of necessity en-route to a totally different place. It’s all just transient—this entire experience and trip—and there’s been a nervous energy lying just beneath the surface that Marco knows very well is Jean’s guilt and resentment.

However, what he’s definitely not expecting in this mire of confusion, is Jean to kiss him like they’ve done it a thousand times before.

Just a quick peck of his lips, hand around Marco’s shoulder, familiar and easy.

And then he practically jumps back, his face rapidly turning scarlet, retreating as he trips over his own jeans and goes careening onto the bed.

It doesn’t help that the towel slips and he finds himself twisted in a tangle of his own limbs and Marco standing there, staring in shock, fingers pressed against his own lips.

“Um,” he finally says dumbly, his thought process vanished into white noise.

Jean is blushing so fiercely now that he looks like something is going to rupture, and he’s managed to right himself and throw the damp towel around his waist again.

“It’s... I’m sorry...” he stammers, obviously mortified.

Marco blinks, and in a moment of clarity, realizes that he doesn’t mind. That actually, the things that’s more surprising right now is how dramatically Jean is reacting, that he’d actually think Marco would react with disgust.

“Stop,” Marco interrupts, his voice wavering with nerves, but he forces himself to follow his instincts. He takes two steps toward Jean and settles a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. If you have a heart attack, we’re in the middle of nowhere and there’s no hospital.”

That gets a nervous, tremulous laugh, and finally, Jean exhales. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he finally grunts, shaking his head a little. “I wasn’t planning it.”

“It’s fine,” Marco replies firmly, voice calm and collected. “We’ll deal with it, okay?” 

“I’m sorr—”

“ _Don’t_ apologize.”

Marco knows his voice must sound severe and serious, because Jean’s mouth snaps shut. He looks up at Marco with wide eyes, but then nods in understanding.

“I’m actually... not sorry,” he finally admits, dropping his eyes again.

“Neither am I,” Marco replies, trying to calm his own thudding heart. “We’re together, and that’s what matters.”

“Even though...” Jean shakes his head, “never mind.”

“We’ll talk later, okay? It’s late, you’ve been driving all day, and you’re tired.”

“Okay,” Jean agrees dejectedly, his voice soft and defeated.

Jean starts and practically jerks away as Marco slowly sinks to sit on the bed next to him, but he lets Jean have his space.

“I’m going to take a shower, and then maybe we can watch a movie or something,” he suggests, looking at with a level gaze. A little normalcy would be good right now.

Jean studies his face, eyes flitting across Marco’s features in an expression that’s very familiar, searching for deceit or something he’s missing. But apparently he only finds earnestness, because he slowly nods.

“Okay,” he finally agrees, sounding a little more relaxed. To Marco’s relief, a smile darts across his mouth—small, but there—and he rolls his eyes ever so slightly. “But not anything dramatic. I don’t care if it won an Oscar or not.”

Marco scrunches his face up and gives Jean a disapproving look. “You know I only like comedies.”

“Fine, fine—whatever you say,” Jean replies, mildly teasing now as he offers up a skeptical expression. 

The bed squeaks as Marco stands back up, arms folded across his chest, as he heads for the bathroom. A hot shower sounds perfect right about now.

“Do you want to order room service?” Jean asks, stretching over across the bed to reach the menu on top of the nightstand in between the two beds.

Marco pointedly ignores the way Jean’s shoulders flex, how his narrow waist twists with effortless grace, the enticing masculine lines of his hips that disappear beneath the towel.

“Sure,” Marco replies as he turns away. “Pizza would be nice.”

“They do have pizza,” Jean confirms, looking at the meager room service menu. “But, uh, I’m not sure if it’s actually pizza.”

“Let’s live dangerously and take a chance,” Marco quips, grinning over his shoulder at Jean before disappearing into the bathroom. “Pizza sounds really good right about now.”

The shower is bliss, soap is a blessing, and Marco can’t imagine a life permanently on the road. As he lathers up his hair, he ponders that idea: a life constantly traveling, transient even, on the road without a place to call home.

He doesn’t like it at all. But for now, with Jean, looking at giant balls of twine and mountains is pretty fun. It’s what lies at the end that he’s unsure about.

“This isn’t pizza,” is Jean’s first words as Marco emerges from the bathroom, wearing one of his full flannel pajama sets that Jean has mercilessly teased him about for years.

Call it an indulgence; he likes to be comfortable.

“It smells like it,” Marco replies, raising an eyebrow as he takes in Jean who’s lounging on the bed, a large box next to him and a paper plate that obviously once held a piece of pizza. 

“It has all the pizza ingredients, but it’s not actual pizza.”

“Well,” Marco reasons, collapsing at the end of Jean’s bed to pull his legs up under him and reach for a slice, “once you leave civilization, that’s what happens.”

For once, Jean doesn’t react negatively to the reference to coming and going, and he just shrugs. “It’s food.”

The movie they choose is some outrageously priced feature that probably came out a year ago, but is apparently primetime cinema in terms of a motel in the middle of nowhere. Jean swears he’s going to pay for it—and the pizza—and Marco just nods. The fact is the entire bill is going on his credit card anyway, and there’s no way he’s going to let Jean pay for anything until he can actually afford it.

Regardless of the fact that the pizza isn’t actually “pizza,” it’s gone in a matter of half an hour, and Jean is half-asleep by the time the credits are rolling. He’s already been dozing in and out as it is, and Marco smiles a little as he cleans up the box, plates, and two empty soda cans that they’d set on the floor.

Jean rolls over, sighing deeply, but he mumbles. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Marco chuckles quietly, switching off the main overhead light and TV. “Less stuff to do tomorrow morning before we check out.”

Jean is lying on top of the comforter of the bed, shirtless and wearing a pair of well-worn sweatpants with their high school logo on it. He looks comfortable, but dead tired.

“Aren’t you going to get under the covers?” Marco teases gently, nudging the back of Jean’s shoulder with two fingers.

There’s some grumbling, and then a half-hearted attempt to pull down the comforter and sheets. Marco laughs a little, shaking his head as he helps, pulling down the bedding so Jean can crawl underneath petulantly. 

He sighs, immediately curling up and settling his head into the pillow, and Marco just stands there for a few moments, studying the shape of his best friend.

Jean looks strangely small under the comforter, huddled into himself as if ready to defend against the world outside, and Marco can’t fight the urge to go to him.

“Hey,” he says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. Even as it dips, Jean doesn’t react much except to mumble a sleepy acknowledgement.

“Jean?”

“Mm.”

Marco hesitates for only a moment, before pulling back the bedclothes on his side and sliding under. He can feel the tension in the bed gather on Jean’s side, his body rigid, now fully awake, and he waits. 

To his dismay, there isn’t any immediate response.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly. He doesn’t touch, waiting tensely for an answer.

Finally, Jean lets out of a puff of air and his shoulders relax. He still doesn’t turn, but then finally speaks. “You want to... after...” he asks, voice incredulous, but also somehow relieved. “Um, it’s okay with me.”

“Remember when we had to share a bed for two months, when we became roommates?” Marco laughs softly, trying to keep the mood light as he stretches over to turn out the lamp. The room goes dark, and there are only slight shadows that dance over the ceiling from where the bathroom door has been left open a crack. Marco hates the dark.

“Yeah,” Jean replies just as quietly, but he sounds amused. “When we were both broke.” 

“Yeah,” he echoes softly, smiling slightly to himself. The memories are both distant, but also close in different ways, bittersweet and nostalgic. “Hey,” he whispers, feeling braver than before and moving closer. “We should just stay in this hotel room forever.”

That earns a slight incredulous laugh, and Jean finally rolls over to face Marco with a skeptical expression.

It’s one of those looks that’s so Jean—a strangely affectionate yet judgmental expression: _What are you talking about/why do I put up with you/why do you put with me?_

“Because I’m okay here,” Marco whispers, his voice more serious than he first intended, moving even closer until there’s finally nowhere else to go except into Jean’s arms. “I like being here.”

“In this shitty hotel room?” Jean replies, his voice suddenly whispery and breathless. He offers his arms, though—both of them—wrapped around Marco’s shoulders without comment. “You wanna live here forever?”

Marco laughs softly, shimmying down to press his face against Jean’s chest, sighing and feeling like a child as he relaxes completely. They used to lie like this sometimes, when Jean had a fight with his mother, and Marco would want to comfort him; only now, it’s just soothing, like clean sheets or the smell of Jean’s car.

“Sure,” he murmurs, and finally, does something new.

His lips against Jean’s chest are soft, and the slight gasp he gets in return sends a sharp thrill through his entire body.

He keeps going, pushing Jean onto his back slowly and kissing around his ribcage, up to his sternum and back down to his stomach, until getting low enough to reach his hips.

He wants to keep going, pull the waistband of those ratty pants down and kiss Jean everywhere, but permission hasn’t been granted, and he’s not sure what any of this means.

“Marco,” Jean gasps suddenly, and then a set of fingers wind tightly in Marco’s hair.

He’s scared, and vulnerable, but he’s not saying no; nonetheless, Marco doesn’t go any further, enjoying the taste and feel of Jean’s skin against his lips. Slowly, the grip in his hair relaxes, and Jean’s back arches as he takes another quick, uneven breath. 

“Hey,” he murmurs finally, sliding his hand up to meet Jean’s at the back of his head and stretching out next to him.

“Hey,” Jean replies, his voice gravelly, “um...”

“Was that okay?” Marco asks quietly, releasing Jean’s hand.

“Um...” Jean stammers again, and Marco feels dread well in his gut. “Yeah,” he answers after a few beats of silence, his body relaxing, “that was more than okay, but...”

Marco feels his stomach drop at Jean’s hesitance, and he immediately pulls away, wrapping his arms around himself self-consciously.

“But?” he says softly, waiting.

“I can’t do that to you,” Jean replies just as softly, voice uncharacteristically wistful.

Marco blinks at the vague remark, frowning as he tries to come up with a succinct question as to not make the situation even more awkward, until Jean interrupts.

“There’s a bus ticket in my bag,” he says suddenly.

Marco blinks, frowning a little in befuddlement as he takes in Jean’s profile, lying next to him in the bed, suddenly seeming more distant than ever before.

“Wait, what?” He shakes his head a little, trying desperately to figure out what Jean could mean.

Jean sighs, sounding like someone put the world on his shoulders, and he turns onto his side so that they’re facing each other.

Marco can make out Jean’s features relatively clearly since his eyes have adjusted, and he feels sudden anxiety rise at the pained expression he sees.

“Sorry,” Jean continues, his voice very soft now, “I couldn’t afford anything better, but it’s a bus ticket from anywhere along the main route we had originally planned to go.” He clears his throat loudly, eyes downcast. “Um, so, if you change your mind, you can just take it, and go back.”

Marco can feel the bile starting to rise in his throat, but he’s not sure whether it’s actual bile or just tears. He doesn’t know what to do, or how to respond. He wants to yell at Jean, scream at him, finally let loose all the frustration and sadness he feels about leaving a place he knows, but at the same time, tell Jean once and for all to _stop doing this._

Instead, he sets his jaw, and gets out of the bed. He knows the look on his face must’ve given his feelings away, because Jean immediately sits up, as if he’s about to apologize.

But Marco doesn’t give him the chance, simply saying, “Don’t.”

And with that, he pulls away from Jean’s bed rigidly, yanks down the comforter and cold sheets of the other bed, and stubbornly climbs in. 

The truth is: he’s too tired to deal with this shit right now, and if he keeps looking at Jean, he’s going to cry.

Nonetheless, Jean doesn’t relent—he gets credit for bravery, since it’s rare Jean pushes back when Marco really puts his foot down—and he just shakes his head. “It’s there if you want it. Good night.”

= = =

By the next morning, Marco feels almost more tired at nine a.m. than he did by the time he fell asleep the night before, which didn’t even happen before three, and then he’d had nightmares about Jean getting up in the middle of the night and leaving him alone.

He’d cried himself back to sleep by five, though he wasn’t sure at that point whether it was out of fatigue or genuine fear, and then finally fallen asleep until his phone alarm had gone off obnoxiously loud at eight.

Jean’s eyes have been fixed on him all morning. Even now as they sit across from each other, eating stale bagels and drinking weak coffee at the complimentary breakfast, the worry on his face is obvious.

“I’m fine,” Marco says firmly just as Jean opens his mouth.

“I was going to ask if you wanted more jam,” he says, his eyes wide. “These kind of taste like bricks.”

Marco sighs, knowing very well that wasn’t what Jean was going to say, but he finally gives and nods. “Yes, please,” he replies softly, always polite. 

Jean doesn’t even ask—just takes Marco’s bagel from his plate and sticks it in the toaster on the counter of the small public dining area. He knows exactly how toasted to make it (brown and crispy, but not burnt), how much butter to add (butter, not margarine), and how much jam to slather on (raspberry, never grape, though strawberry is acceptable in an emergency).

He plunks it down in front of Marco again, offering it like an apology, and then rests his hand on Marco’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says simply.

There are a lot of things to be sorry for, and Marco’s not even sure if Jean knows what they are, but right now, the gesture is at least appreciated.

Marco shrugs a little, but he doesn’t shake Jean’s hand off. “Thanks,” he says definitively as he takes a bite of the bagel—a word also open to interpretation at this point.

It seems Jean is determined not to let their little tiff the night before ruin the rest of the trip, though, and he’s already got the map out once Marco’s done checking out. The car is running and Jean’s sucking on a cigarette as he waits, looking with interest at one of the marked destinations.

“Can you please quit?” Marco pleads as he gets into the car, slamming the door shut. “Those are going to kill you.”

“Haven’t killed me yet,” he retorts, smiling sideways in that smarmy way that Marco both loves and loathes. “Don’t jinx it.”

“You’re a jerk,” Marco declares, shooting Jean his middle finger.

“Such vile hand gestures from honors student Marco Bodt!” Jean whoops, laughing as he pulls the car into reverse and then guns it out of the parking lot in a whoosh of dust. 

Marco laughs, relieved that some of the tension from earlier has dissipated, if only because Jean made his bagel the right way and he’s now less irritable. He’s trying not to think about the offer Jean had made the night before, though, because nothing had ever hurt him that much he can remember.

Better to just pretend it never happened, at least for now.

They drive for a little while in silence, headed in the general direction of the highway, until Jean says suddenly, “Do you want to go to the car graveyard?”

“The what?” Marco asks, his eyes popping open from where he’d started to doze off. Jean’s steady, almost inaudible humming with the quiet music he’d put on had lulled Marco into a trance.

“It’s on your map thing,” Jean explains, looking over at Marco with enthusiasm. “It’s a car graveyard. Where cars go to die.”

Marco laughs, adjusting the sun visor to stop the early morning rays from hurting his eyes. “Sure, but that’s kind of more out of the way than the ball of twine.”

“That’s okay,” Jean replies, his voice suddenly soft. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“It’ll be fun,” Marco reasons, but his voice is just as soft.

They could use a little fun right about now.

Five hours, several rest stops, and a lot of coffee later, they’re finally a few mere miles from the “car graveyard.”

The car graveyard, as Marco had found it listed online, boasted a website undoubtedly designed before high speed Internet was a thing, but it looked like something Jean would like. That was one reason he’d picked it.

Jean finds the strangest things fascinating—balls of twine and huge lots of broken down cars—but somehow, Marco always picks them right. He’s a little quirky in his interests, but given how long they’ve known each other, it’s not hard to figure out after a while.

“A car graveyard sounds really cool,” Jean is yammering, “like, where are the cars from? Do people just ditch their cars? Why don’t they donate them? Is it a junkyard? A cover for a drug cartel? So weird, man.”

Marco just listens, totally entertained as Jean babbles, happy to hear him excited about something (and also, distracted).

That is, until they finally pull off onto a long dirt road. There’s a promising, delightfully dilapidated sign that advertises “Car Graveyard” with a ghost in the shape of a tire.

But Marco’s smile fades as he looks past that, and sees only desert. In fact, the only thing that seems to exist besides the sign is a ramshackle broken down building that only has the foundation and a few beams of wood left.

“I guess the Car Graveyard went to heaven,” he quips, looking over at Jean and feeling a little sad. He knew it was partially because they both needed something to focus on apart from each other, but that’s no longer working.

“Guess so,” Jean replies quietly, slowly backing the car into reverse and making a u-turn back onto the main road.

They drive in silence for half an hour, watching as a rain storm rises on the horizon; it’s a view that matches Marco’s mood.

“You want to try for the petting zoo with only baby goats?” Marco ventures, trying to remain optimistic.

“I don’t think so,” Jean replies, but he doesn’t sound irritated, so much as tired. “We’ve already wasted enough time.”

“I didn’t think it was a waste of time,” Marco replies quietly, looking down at his hands where he’s clasped them primly together. “I thought the twine was fun.”

Jean sighs a little, and shakes his head. “Why are you here?”

And there it is: the question Marco’s been waiting for. Appropriately, lightning flashes in the distance.

“Why would you ask me that?” he whispers, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. 

“Don’t play that card,” Jean grunts, his eyes narrowed and his voice pained. Just as Marco expects, he reaches for a cigarette and lights it with shaky fingers. “Don’t do your rhetorical question thing.”

“Well, then answer yourself,” Marco hisses, feeling anger start to bloom. It’s a relief as it takes over the acute pain he’s feeling. “You already know the answer. I’ve already told you a million times, so why are you asking me?”

“Bullshit!” Jean cries, his voice cracking. “You didn’t want to leave. You’ve been sad about it since the moment you shut that door, and for some reason, you keep acting like everything is fine. Why?”

Marco bites his lip, trying hard to keep the tumult of emotions in, but he can’t as the rain starts to pound on the car as the sky opens. It’s like an invitation to stop holding back.

“No!” he practically shouts, turning to look at Jean in outrage. “I didn’t want to leave! Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Of course I’m not fucking happy!” Jean hisses, shooting a look over at Marco. “You didn’t want to leave the first time, and you didn’t want to leave this time.” He shakes his head, and Marco can see the tears in his eyes. The last time he saw Jean cry was in ninth grade when he nearly got a concussion after getting into a fight. “Stop leaving things! Stop making me feel guilty.”

Marco crosses his arms and hunches over in his seat, refusing to answer. It’s also not the best idea to get into a shouting match about a subject that’s been waiting to explode for a month while driving in a heavy downpour in the middle of nowhere with a car packed full of all your worldly possessions.

“That’s what this is about,” he replies simply. “You just said it.”

“I...” Jean goes to argue, his voice hoarse. “Just take the damn ticket already, and stop being afraid to live for yourself.”

His mouth clamps shut, and something in Marco snaps.

“Stop the car,” he says calmly. Jean shoots him a nervous look, as if he’s aware that he just said something he can’t take back, and to Marco’s amazement, actually obeys.

He probably assumes it’s just Marco’s rationality kicking in, good old dependable honors student Marco Bodt, there to save the day and act like the sane one, see what needs to be seen in Jean and get the good out of him.

The car slowly rolls to a stop in the shoulder—not that they’ve seen any other cars for miles—and Jean kills the engine. The rain thuds down on top of the roof, and Marco finally turns to face Jean.

Normally, Jean is something he loves to look at; a comfort and ballast, whether Jean himself would ever believe it or not. 

“Why are you still smoking?” he asks suddenly.

That takes Jean by surprise, and he looks downright dumbfounded. “Um...” he ventures, cocking his head to the side slightly. It’s obvious he’s starting to wonder if Marco’s lost it, but he still answers. “Habit?”

“Oh, yeah?” Marco asks, nimbly reaching over to seize Jean’s pack of cigarettes that are lying on the armrest between them. Jean just watches in total befuddlement, almost afraid to take them back, looking from Marco to the cigarettes and then back at Marco with wide eyes.

“Fuck that,” he says, and then throws the car door open and chucks the cigarettes out into the rain. He can hear Jean immediately cry in outrage, but then he gets out of the car and slams the door shut.

He has no idea where he’s going as he starts to walk down the road, away from Jean’s car, but right now he can’t think of anything except the fact he’s relieved Jean won’t see him cry since it’s raining too hard.

For once, he doesn’t have a plan or a goal. He knows, in some vague rational part of his brain, that he’s walking down an empty highway in the middle of the desert in a torrential downpour, wearing Jean’s sweatshirt and a pair of track pants with beat up sneakers. In that same place, he knows that if he continued to walk down this highway, the sun will come back out, and chances are he’ll be killed by a wild animal and eaten by buzzards, or some crazy person will stop and abduct him.

Or maybe some ordinary, normal person would see him and drop him off somewhere with a phone, considering he’s relatively sure the phone currently in his drenched pocket is probably down for the count.

Regardless of that rational part of his brain, though, all he can do is cry and walk. It all comes back—the intense sorrow he’d felt, first leaving their hometown where he’d grown up—lured out into the world by Jean’s excitement over palm trees and distant, cosmopolitan cities.

He hadn’t really wanted to leave, but that first time, Jean had actually asked him to go. And since it wasn’t like Marco had anything better going on—though he probably could have at some point—he’d gone along. 

“Marco!” comes the cry from the window, and Jean’s car is inching along next to him. 

He ignores it.

It was when Jean couldn’t find a steady job that paid, and Marco had started making decent money, that he took up smoking. They shared an apartment that Marco had painted after forcing Jean to pick a color. In those first few months, Jean had used the expensive coffee maker his mother gave him as a housewarming present, and they’d sit by the window in what was actually more of a shoebox than an apartment, talking and drinking coffee. 

Marco had never been happier.

“Please...” comes a sad, defeated voice.

Marco keeps walking.

Jean got sad; he got tired. And while Marco isn’t going to blame him for giving up, because he really couldn’t catch a break, he’s tired of Jean shoving him away. Tired of being made to feel like he doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t know where he wants to go, doesn’t know how to live for himself.

He sniffles and stops, shaking his head. There’s water pouring off his hair and his shoes are squelching, but Jean knows well enough to roll down the passenger side window and wait, rather than hopping out and trying to talk some sense into him.

“Marco?” Jean’s voice can barely be heard over the rain, and Marco’s attention is at least a little piqued when he hears the tears there. “Where are you going?”

Marco bends down, scowling into the car, jabbing his finger at Jean. “I guess I’m going to figure out how to ‘live for myself,’” he growls, fighting to stop his voice from locking up as his throat tightens.

“I’m sorry,” Jean says, shaking his head. “That was fucked up. I shouldn’t have said that...”

“Why can’t you understand that I don’t want to be somewhere if _you’re not there?_ ” Marco demands in a shrill voice, crossing his arms defensively and taking a few steps away from the car. “You’re slowly killing yourself,” he says, a sob making its way out of his throat, “and then you try to give me a bus ticket back to some stupid place without you.”

That’s what gets Jean out of the car, engine dying as he shuts it off, and slams the door behind him. Marco immediately takes two steps back as Jean rounds the car, hesitating when he sees the look on Marco’s face.

And this is what Jean does—he doesn’t understand what Marco needs, when to push and when not to. He knows how to make the perfect bagel, how to choose a wall color, how Marco takes his coffee, and the pin code to his phone.

But despite all that, he can’t seem to figure out how or why Marco loves him; or maybe, he just won’t try.

“Damn it,” he grunts, but finally closes the distance between them. He pulls Marco close despite angry sputters, and Marco’s lost the moment a gentle hand slides up into his hair, cradling the back of his head. “I’m sorry,” Jean murmurs.

They’re both drenched, but they just stand there, until finally, Marco starts to cry into Jean’s shoulder. He cries so hard he’s afraid he’s going to throw up and he can’t breathe, and Jean just rubs his back and shushes him, strokes his hair and doesn’t move.

He cries for all the things he left, for watching palm trees and neon disappear into the rearview mirror, for leaving familiar things behind; but most of all, he cries because Jean told him to go back to it all alone.

“I don’t want to hold you back,” Jean whispers as the rain finally starts to abate, though it’s still drizzling, “but I’m sorry for being an asshole.” He shakes his head, his lip quivering. “I’m sorry for taking it out on you.”

“It was _my choice_ to leave,” Marco finally manages to get out through one last choked sob, frustrated at his lack of control over emotions, but also at Jean. “You didn’t make me.”

That earns a short—and Marco hopes, thoughtful—silence from Jean, but the comforting motion of his hand rubbing over Marco’s shoulder blades doesn’t stop.

“What is this?” Jean finally whispers, turning his own head to press his cheek against Marco’s temple so they don’t have to look at each other. 

Marco hugs Jean tighter, somehow still afraid he’s going to be pushed away, and shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he replies in a raspy whisper, “and I don’t care. I just know that I don’t want to be apart from you.”

Jean sighs softly, and after a moment, his arms tighten around Marco too. “I want to be with you too,” he replies quietly. To Marco’s surprise, suddenly there’s an edge of tears to Jean’s voice as well. “I don’t want you to go back, but I couldn’t stay—I couldn’t even afford to help you with groceries.”

“I know,” Marco whispers, knowing how hard Jean tried, but a person can only be beat down so many times.

He pulls back to look at Jean, and his heart clenches when he sees Jean is fighting back tears; his face is wet from the rain, but Marco would know that look anywhere, especially since it’s so rare.

“But how long will that last?” Jean asks, the words coming fast now. “You want to get married, have kids, own stuff.” He shakes his head, his lip wobbling. “It’s more than just _now_.”

Marco sighs softly, reaching his hand up to trace his thumb along Jean’s cheekbone. The sun is starting to reemerge, and it’s stopped raining.

“I don’t know if I want any of that stuff,” he replies simply, shaking his head. “But I know... I want you.”

Jean’s mouth snaps shut, and he just stares at Marco as if he’s never seen him before, looking totally dumbfounded. 

“I know that if you went somewhere else, I’d spend too much of my life trying to find you again,” Marco continues in a dulcet voice, his tone a little hoarse from crying before. “You’re...” His voice trails off, and he deeps a deep albeit shaky breath.

“What?” Jean whispers, his eyebrows raised. “I’m what?” He sounds a little desperate now, as if he’s afraid of what the answer might be, or maybe just afraid of the fact that he has no idea.

There’s a short silence, the pavement steaming slightly as the sun beats down on it again, until Marco finally replies very softly, “ _You’re_ home.” His throat tightens as he adds, “So, why do you keep pushing me away?”

The hug Jean pulls him into is almost suffocating, tight and earnest, and he doesn’t speak. He just holds on, both arms wrapped around Marco, until replying, “I don’t know.”

The answer is surprisingly honest, especially since it’s Jean admitting indecision, and Marco takes the opportunity to run his hand up Jean’s spine to the back of his neck, intending the touch to be comforting.

“Well, knock it off,” he says softly. That gets an absurd, gravelly laugh, but Jean doesn’t let go.

They stand there holding each other until their clothes are nearly dry, the pavement is near scorching again, and a few birds sail in the painfully blue, endless sky.

Marco lets go first, pulling back to look at Jean and push the hair out of his face. That earns a blush, but for once, Jean doesn’t shy away or look unsure. He just takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting Marco touch his face, slide fingers from his temple down to his jaw, smiling a little through the stroke of a thumb.

It’s been a long time since he’s smiled like this.

“You ready to get back in the car?” Marco asks quietly.

Jean nods once, and they part, walking back to the car and climbing into their respective seats.

The doors slam, and for the first time, Marco doesn’t feel as if he’s about to fall out.

“Where’s that map?” Jean asks, turning the keys in the ignition as the engine roars to life.

Marco raises his eyebrows, slightly bemused, but he humors Jean and fumbles around for the map that’s folded in the glove compartment.

“It’s right here,” he answers, opening it as much as possible and pointing to where he thinks their current location is.

Jean’s brow furrows in thought, and his fingers immediately go for his pocket where his cigarettes usually live—obviously having forgotten that Marco threw them into the rain—but when he finds them missing, his hand drops.

He grits his jaw, and then to Marco’s surprise, smiles through it. It’s pained and awkward, but he doesn’t complain, and he doesn’t reach for them again.

He closes his eyes suddenly, turning to Marco with that forced, gorgeous smile that shows he’s trying so hard, and darts out his finger.

He practically makes a hole in the map as he hits the tip if it into some state at least a day’s drive away, and opens his eyes.

“Let’s go there,” he says simply, meeting Marco’s eyes, and then looking back down at the map.

“But...” Marco says, his eyes wide, “aren’t we headed back to—”

“Let’s go together,” Jean interjects, his voice almost shy.

As he pulls his hand back, looking almost rejected, Marco catches it and holds his fingers fast.

“Okay,” he replies, pulling Jean’s hand up to kiss the back of it without reservation, “let’s drive.”

Because they’re both already home.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much appreciated, especially since is the first thing I've posted in a while!
> 
> [I also have a tumblr.](http://flecksofpoppy.tumblr.com) c:


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